True North (Compass series Book 4) (20 page)

I’m shaken out of my reveries of squiring Press around town by the plaintive tone of my intercom.

“Yeah?”

“Um, Secretary Lewis?”

I have to swallow a yell. As it is, my tone is bitten back and testy. “What is it, Jenny?”

“You should probably turn on your TV. And check Twitter. There’s been a bombing in Cleveland.”

Maybe my brain’s not working quite right because I’m failing to see why Jenny would interrupt me for this when I asked her to hold all my calls so I could actually get some work done. “That’s obviously terrible, but what does that have directly to do with me?”

“It was at one of CHA’s properties. They’re saying six of our tenants are dead.”

Jesus Christ. “Do they know who’s responsible yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Is Secretary Vazquez going?”

“I’m—”

“Find out. She should. And get me on a plane too. I need to be out there no matter what happened.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Don’t talk to me again until it’s done or if you hear from Secretary Vazquez or the president.”

I click her off before she can reply and flick on my TV and bring up the social media sites. Please, please don’t let our tenants be the perpetrators. Please. It’ll be a shitstorm no matter what and the press will be all over this, but please don’t let it be our tenants. Let it be some domestic terrorist, some nutjob, but for the love of all that’s holy, not one of ours. This day just got a hundred times worse.

*

It’s been a
long week, and I haven’t been to the club at all, which makes it feel even longer.

All I want in my whole life is to unwind, and I’m finding that lately I prefer to do that with a crop in my hand and an edge to my voice rather than a screaming tirade and a bottle of baby oil at the end of the day. Or a bottle of vodka for that matter. I’m going to call that progress. Unfortunately, if I do it properly—as I’ve promised I would—I can’t get my hands on dominance at this very second, whereas my other preferred forms of blowing off steam are readily available. There’s a reason I’ve been kind of an asshole my whole life, and it’s because it’s way easier than being a good person. Goddamn Rey Walter for making the price of entry to his sick, secret world so frigging high.

The good news is that, after a week in Cleveland, I’m home and my worst fears didn’t come to fruition. The people responsible for the explosives at the development weren’t our tenants, but instead a group of people I’d readily classify as domestic terrorists.

For the most part, I have no problems with libertarians. I agree government isn’t always efficient and we could use less of it, even though I’d likely be out of a job if that were true. But when they use explosives instead of a ballot to get their way, that’s when my sympathy evaporates. The group claiming responsibility did it to protest government waste and the “billions of dollars being squandered on the dregs of humanity.”

Ridiculous, ignorant bullshit like that makes me see red. I want to make them personally apologize and rebuild the housing they ruined, not to mention give them full bios on the people they killed. Like the single mother raising four kids while working two minimum-wage jobs and going back to school to better her opportunities.

After the news came down, I had a little destructive episode in my office. Cleared the shelf that holds the current volumes of the Code of Federal Regulations relevant to my job. The thick volumes of the CFR made satisfying thumps as they landed on the carpeted floor, but it still wasn’t enough. So I…I flipped a table. Which I’m not proud of, but damn did it feel good and Rey never said anything about not doing damage to government property.

But I’m back. From the funerals; from the pressers; from the community vigils; and from heaps of meetings with the director of the housing authority, the local police force, Secretary Vazquez, and yes, even the president, who had flown in for half a day. There’ll be many more meetings and initiatives, but for the moment, we’ve got the situation under control. And while I’ve got a pile of shit to deal with on my desk, my mind keeps wandering to one thing, and I can’t help thinking I might focus better if I took care of that first. Worth a shot.

So I dial from my personal cell, because fuck if I’m going to get caught with this man’s number in government records. When he answers as usual—“Slade. What can I do for you?”—my blood pressure goes down and the vise that’s been squeezing my chest for the past seven days loosens a little.

“I was wondering if you might be willing to make some arrangements for me.”

“These arrangements wouldn’t happen to involve a certain blonde pixie, would they?”

His teasing irritates me a little, but if I want this done right, I’ve got to go through him. And because I’ve started to hope for more than the odd meet-up with her at the Black House, I am going to do this right. Lay my groundwork and woo her as surely as I did when we first met. Make her trust me again.

“Yes. They would. Just me and her.”

There’s a pause and I wince because his unspoken calculation on whether or not I deserve this is downright painful. But when his voice finally sounds on the other end of the line, it’s with the most welcome words in the world.

“And what precisely did you have in mind?”

‡

Don’t wear anything you would mind being destroyed.

T
hat’s the text
I’d sent to Pressly this afternoon since I’ve been given permission from Rey to communicate with her directly. I’d hoped to hit her right before she left work. I don’t want to distract her, but I do want to build anticipation. Have her checking her perfect nails while she fidgets on the Metro. Maybe make her click her phone on and off, checking for messages that won’t come because we’ve made our arrangements already. Make her imagine a hundred scenarios in which I might destroy her clothes. With my hands? My teeth? Scissors or a knife? I want her thinking about it. I want her thinking about me.

Because I’m sure as hell thinking about her. Have been for days. Plotting, planning, imagining what exactly I’m going to do with her. Wanting to make her happy.

I swing down the stairs of the Capitol Hill townhouse that used to be
our
townhouse. I understand why she didn’t want to come here—it’s probably best to keep things on neutral ground given our history—but I can’t help wishing otherwise. Can’t stop images of her in this house, our house, from flooding my head. It’s seemed empty since she left, and I’d given in to the idea that it’d always be haunted by her ghost. But being so close to having a flesh-and-blood Pressly here again, her ebullient laugh filling the halls, even her long blonde hair clogging the sink… I’d give just about anything to have that back.

I want my wife back.

The bag slung over my shoulder isn’t heavy—I haven’t stuffed it full—but it should be everything I need for what I have planned.
Don’t be overambitious, Lewis. Take it slow. Coax her, excite her, convince her you’re worthy of her.

I practically skip down the steps while I’m humming to myself and have to purposefully replace the giddiness playing over my face with a scowl. The Metro is enough to dull some of the delight coursing through me, but not the anticipation. My heel bounces against the sticky floor of the train, my bag a suspicious package between my feet. It looks like an ordinary gym bag, but it’s not. It’s so not.

When the doors open, I practically vault out of my seat and into the station, scaling the stairs two at a time because, even though I’ve got plenty of time, the thumping of my heart spurs me on.

It’s beating so hard I think the hotel employee behind the check-in desk must be able to see it all the way through layers of button-down, suit coat, and trench, but she just smiles pleasantly as I hand her my credit card and ID.

“Welcome back, Mr. Lewis. Please let me know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

I’d desperately like to order a bottle of wine—or maybe champagne because Pressly loves bubbles—but I’m going to do this properly. And properly means not being impaired in any way. Well, except for the adrenaline pulsing through my system. Surely Rey would forgive me that? Even if my hands shake holding the keycard and I have to try it three times before I can get the damn door open.

Inside is a room with unfamiliar décor. I’d stayed here for a few months after the divorce. Pressly hadn’t asked for the townhouse in the divorce—in fact had been quite adamant she
didn’t
want it, despite all the time and energy she’d poured into the place when we first moved in. I’d thought about selling it, but I’m the practical sort and there wasn’t a good reason to. But after a while, I’d understood why she hadn’t wanted to stay. I couldn’t stand being in the house without Pressly there. It was too quiet, too empty. I’d wander around like a lost soul, mostly with a bottle in my hand. I’d even stopped drinking the good stuff at some point, and that was when I knew I had to get out.

So I’d come here. It had been all rusts, taupes, and sages six years ago, but they’ve redone it since then and I have to say I prefer the update. It’s darker, sharper shades of black and grey, with metallics and cream to cut the darkness.

A modern tufted armchair with an ottoman graces the corner, and a low-slung chaise is pressed against the wall by the window. Both of those have a great deal of potential, as does the king-sized bed that juts out into the middle of the room, fluffy white duvet stretched neatly over the mattress and a pile of pillows against the headboard. Not any attachment points handy, though. It’s strange what I notice in hotel rooms lately. Hard points for bondage had never been something I looked for in lodgings, but now they are and most of them are for shit.

My watch says 7:21, and Pressly is supposed to be here at seven-thirty. Nine minutes to wait. Nine minutes to make myself insane. I set the bag at the foot of the chaise and unzip the side pocket to swap out my shoes for a brand-new pair. My fingers itch to open the main compartment and quadruple-check the contents, but if she’s early, I don’t want to be caught rifling through the bag, looking unprepared. Confidence. Competence.

The trench comes off to be hung in the closet, but I leave the suit coat on. Grabbing one of the tumblers gracing the sideboard, I fill it with water and chug, stopping after two glasses because I don’t want to interrupt our fun and games by having to take a leak.

Pacing, though—pacing will work. Mindless, driven pacing is definitely what’s called for. To the huge picture window and back. From the outside, the windows are mirrored—you can’t see in at all—but from the inside you wouldn’t know. The one-way tint offers possibilities.

I get so distracted imagining that scene—backing Pressly up against the window, pressing her wrists to the cold glass and making her shiver, telling her how the people below must be admiring her ass. And when I’d lift her up, settle her onto my cock, and have her wrap her legs around my waist, how envious they’d be of the good fucking she’d be getting against the surface—that I almost miss the soft knock on the door.

The sound is tentative and polite. Is she nervous? I am.

I shake out my hands on the way to the door, hoping to disperse some of the nerves that have gathered, but of course it doesn’t work. At least gripping the handle to turn it offers a momentary reprieve. Maybe being able to hold on to Pressly will offer the same.

When I open the door, she’s standing there, hands in the pockets of a short trench I remember, and it surprises me. I’d recognize that coat anywhere. I gave it to her. I’d noticed her coveting it whenever we strolled by the upscale, bay-windowed store. When I’d told her to go try it on, she’d demurred.

“My old one is fine.”

But it hadn’t been. The liner had been in shreds and the hems were getting threadbare. The first time I’d walked in there to get it for her, though, I’d realized what she hadn’t said because she’s sensitive and made of class:
We can’t afford this
. $1500 for a
coat
? I’d had to walk out, shame sour in my stomach.

Pressly had never made me feel like I wasn’t good enough because I couldn’t give her the things she’d grown up with, but I’d felt that way all the same. Later, when I’d gotten my first big promotion, that was how I’d told her. A big box in the center of the dining room table in the apartment we’d move out of in a year because I’d made it.